


Through the Glass

by nothingelsematters



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Celebration sex, Drunk Sex, M/M, and also some frustrated sex, five times fic, max and jeremy being cute generally, totally headcanon at this point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingelsematters/pseuds/nothingelsematters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alcohol doesn't make you do things you don't want to do. It just removes your inhibitions about doing them.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Or, five times Max and Jeremy had drunk sex, and the one time...well, you'll see.</p>
<p>(One warning for technically underage drinking. By two weeks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Glass

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've no idea how, why or even when, but somehow, this has become firmly entrenched in my head. Maybe it's the wildly different skating styles? The crazy height difference? I don't know, but now I'm subjecting you to it too.

**The 2013 US National Figure Skating Championships, Omaha**

 

Jeremy scowled at his reflection in the amber liquid currently occupying his glass. He knew he looked sour and miserable. He didn't need confirmation from his drink. He tipped the glass and swallowed the whiskey quickly, feeling the slow burn down into his stomach.

Nobody had noticed his scowl.

Jeremy sighed and swirled the ice cubes. Everyone else was having a great time, and here he was, throwing a one-man pity party in the corner for himself. And why? Because he hadn't won his _fourth_ National title, like that was some huge failure! Some would kill just to have one National title; he had three, and he was sulking because he'd lost.

He glanced up. Yes, he'd lost his fourth National title. No, he suddenly realised, in a moment of alcohol-induced honesty. He hadn't _lost_ his fourth National title. Max had _won_ his first. And there he was - out on the dance floor. Jeremy laughed. The chequered shirt was awful, and his dancing was hilariously bad, but his face was bright, his eyes shining, his smile wide, and Jeremy knew that no matter how drunk Max got tonight, he would never, ever forget this night, this moment.

Of course, he thought with a wry smile, officially, Max wasn't getting drunk. He wouldn't be twenty-one for another two weeks. But the sneaked-in bottles of whiskey and vodka had done the rounds into Max's drinks, and he was even more exuberant and happy. No sign of the medal, but Jeremy guessed it was probably tucked away safely in his room. Just about everyone fell victim to the movement Max called "dancing", and he watched, almost wistfully, as they all spun round and round.

Suddenly, Jeremy felt very old.

He was casting a damp cloud over the party, and he knew it. Quietly he rose from his corner and slipped out.

Jeremy was just sliding his key into his door when someone called out. He turned, and saw Max jogging down the hallway towards him. "Jeremy!"

Jeremy forced a smile onto his face. "Hey, Max."

Max came to a (wobbly) halt and looked up at Jeremy, but his face was serious. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Sure," Jeremy said awkwardly. "Just fine." 

"You don't look it," Max said honestly. "You look sad. You've looked sad ever since the scores came up."

Jeremy's door lock clicked open and he tried to escape backwards. "I'm fine, Max. Just tired."

"I'm sorry, Jeremy, please -"

The door gave behind Jeremy just as Max reached for him, and they ended up tumbling in a drunken heap on Jeremy's bedroom floor.

For a moment, Jeremy was too surprised to do anything. Max was laughing, and smiling again; his face was still bright, and Jeremy felt an answering smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Oops."

Max laughed again. "Oops indeed."

His laughter was infectious; Jeremy couldn't help but laugh too, and for some reason, that made Max smile wider.

"What were you apologising for?" Jeremy asked, suddenly remembering the moment before the door had opened.

"Oh," Max looked a little embarrassed, and suddenly seemed to find the buttons on Jeremy's shirt very interesting. "It was just - you looked so sad before, I was worried - worried it was my fault."

Jeremy blinked. "Your fault?"

"Yeah," Max sighed. "I mean, I wasn't supposed to - no-one was expecting me to. They thought it would be you and Ross."

Jeremy raised his eyebrow. "Are you _apologising_ for winning?"

Max hid his face against Jeremy's shoulder and mumbled something inaudible.

"What?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Can we get off the floor? It's hurting my back."

Jeremy frowned.

"Hurting your back?"

"I didn't cool down properly," Max admitted. "And then I didn't warm back up properly for the gala. I'm all over the place and my back hates me."

Jeremy rolled his eyes as he sat up, sending Max tumbling backwards again. "Then get on the bed, you goof, and I'll give you a massage."

"A what?"

"You know," Jeremy said, shoving Max towards the bed, "that thing where someone rubs your back and it feels good."

"I know what a massage is," Max protested, even as he lay down on his front. "What I don't understand is why you're giving me one."

"Shirt off," Jeremy replied, fishing the massage oil out of his bag. "Just call it a prize for winning."

Jeremy straddled Max and tipped out some of the oil. He reached down - and was surprised to feel solid muscle under his hands as he set to work. Suddenly his brain caught up. Until now, he had thought of Max still as a boy; now he realised that Max had grown up, and become quite a handsome young man.

_A handsome, **straight** young man, _ his brain protested _. You saw him kissing Gracie earlier. And she is terrifying, she would kill you_.

Beneath him, Max sighed, and Jeremy felt the muscles under his hands relax. "You're good at this."

"I've had some practice," Jeremy said diffidently. Max shifted, stretching like a cat, and Jeremy squashed down hard on the flicker of interest from other areas of his brain. His treacherous body was quick to react, and Jeremy had to swiftly lift himself onto his knees and hope that Max hadn't felt his reaction. Max's skin was warm beneath his; he bent over to try and ease out the knots in his shoulders.

"You're _really_ good at this," Max mumbled, but there was something breathless to his tone that had Jeremy hesitating. Was he imagining it? "Please don't stop."

"I'll have to soon," Jeremy pointed out. "If your muscles get any looser, they'll detach."

Max tried to smother his laughter in the pillow, then hissed as Jeremy pressed down on a particularly tight knot. "Oh. Harder."

Jeremy gritted his teeth; the words had come out on a moan, and the reckless part of his brain, unleashed by the alcohol, was prodding him along...what harm could there be in just one night...?

"I like my prize," Max said, still slightly breathless; Jeremy realised that somewhere in all that, he'd turned over, and he was now being treated to a full view of a well-defined torso.

"I'm glad," Jeremy smiled back, trying to figure out how to let this end without awkwardness. "I'm sure there'll be others."

"I hope there'll be others." Max grinned; he winked at Jeremy.

That undid the last of Jeremy's self-control, and before he could stop himself, he bent down and kissed Max.

Max, he thought idly, kissed with plenty of enthusiasm, but it was clear he didn't have much experience with kissing guys, if any. Jeremy was happy to take the lead for a moment; he could feel Max's fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling their bodies close together, and it quickly became apparent that their encounter was not one-sided.

"Have you ever done this before?" Jeremy felt he had to ask.

"No," Max replied flippantly. "But you have, right?" Jeremy nodded. "So, take control. Do whatever you want. Show me."

Jeremy lost no time complying, and dispensed with their remaining clothes as quickly as possible. Trying to get a condom on Max was made much more difficult than it should have been by Max's sudden fascination with Jeremy's tattoos, and his teasing, featherlight touches as he traced their patterns. Jeremy took a deep breath - it had been a while for him. Then slowly he lowered himself, working Max's cock inside him until he was sitting on his hips. He let out a shaky breath, trying to maintain control of himself, and looked up at Max.

Max's eyes were huge, the pupils blown so that they were nearly black, and his fingers were gripping Jeremy's hips hard enough that there would be bruises there in the morning. He was gasping for breath, and he looked - Jeremy wasn't sure there was a word for it, but somewhere between debauched and desperate was probably right.

"Jeremy - are you - okay?"

Jeremy regained his equilibrium, and bent down to kiss Max again, ignoring the gasping whiny noise the change in angle induced before moving his hips inquiringly. Max gasped again, his vice-grip moving from Jeremy's hips to his back, his fingernails digging into the skin there.

"God, please do that again."

Jeremy obliged, and the strangled noise that left Max's throat made tingles run down his spine. He caught a rhythm, and set about trying to elicit as many of them as possible. He could feel the tension building in Max's body, and rocked harder - and then it was his turn to cry out as an inquisitive hand wrapped itself around his cock, stroking and touching and experimenting.

Max came first, a garbled mass of pleas tumbling from his lips as his hips jerked upwards with such force that Jeremy nearly fell off, but it was enough to send him over the edge too, sighing as Max stroked him through it, before collapsing on top of him, closing his eyes as he felt Max's lips on his forehead.

The alcohol and the exhaustion of the day set in, then, and before either could do anything else, they were asleep.

*

Jeremy knew what he would find the next morning when he opened his eyes, and sure enough, the bed was empty and cold next to him, and he was alone. He sat up, looking somewhat hopefully around, but knowing Max had gone. His head was splitting and he grimaced. Too much whiskey. Then he looked more closely at his room, and he smiled.

He had been cleaned up, wiped down, at some point, and he was now wearing pyjama bottoms which he was certain he hadn't gone to sleep in. Belatedly, he realised he'd been tucked under the duvet, too, and the heating had been turned on so that the room wasn't cold. His clothes were neatly folded on a chair (unlike the haphazard way he'd thrown them to the floor), and sitting on the bedside table was a glass of water, a box of Nurofen, and a note.

Jeremy swallowed the tablets with expert ease, and read the note. It was short, in handwriting he knew to be Max's: _Thankyou for my prize_.

And suddenly Jeremy felt better, and a lot less dirty.

(Later, he would learn that Max had told Gracie the truth when she had asked him where he'd got to. He never knew what to make of the fact that she didn't kill him.)


End file.
